


Observational Failure, or: Seeing is Believing

by SilentAuror



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, POV: Lestrade, POV: third person, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-12
Updated: 2015-11-12
Packaged: 2018-05-01 05:58:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5194748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilentAuror/pseuds/SilentAuror
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade is almost sure that Sherlock and John are together now. All the evidence is pointing to it, yet he just can't seem to wrap his brain around the concept.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Observational Failure, or: Seeing is Believing

**Author's Note:**

> Translation into Vietnamese by AnnieHuynh available [here](https://dieulinhtinh.wordpress.com/2016/08/22/that-bai-trong-su-quan-sat-hay-tai-nghe-khong-bang-mat-thay/)

**Observational Failure, Or: Seeing is Believing**

 

He couldn’t even be entirely sure that it was happening. They hadn’t exactly told him, but he was almost certain that it was. To be fair, they’d always given off that vibe, even before, hadn’t they? Before Mary and all that. Nasty bit of work, that one. Once they’d seen fit to let him in on all of that, Lestrade had asked about five questions, none of which fully answered his lengthy list, but then dropped it. John was stressed out and even Sherlock looked tired by that point. They’d caught her, taken the child (apparently not even John’s, after all that), put her into temporary care until an adoption could be arranged, and locked Mary up. Her name wasn’t even Mary, apparently, though no search for Linda Short had turned anything up in his database back at the office, either. Probably that wasn’t even her real name. The point is, it’s all over, and ever since… well, there’s _some_ evidence, isn’t there? He’s almost positive he’s interpreting some of the smiles he’s glimpsed passing between them for what they are. It’s mostly little things. Sometimes Sherlock will be kneeling in the mud somewhere and John will help him up and he thinks their fingers linger just a little longer than most people’s would. Or they’ll be walking away from a crime scene and Sherlock will reach back for John and Lestrade can’t quite tell whether he’s passing him a scrap of paper or bit of evidence or actually just taking his hand, and while he’s curious, he also can’t quite bring himself to spy like that. Not that it’s spying, exactly, but something about the whole thing feels rather delicate. Like if they haven’t come out and said, maybe he shouldn’t catch them out, as it were. 

He’s always thought John was a pretty straight-up bloke. Girlfriends, wife, even if that one didn’t work out the way anyone thought. Likes a pub night with the game on, buys his obligatory round. But from the first, he’d always been with Sherlock, ever since the night he turned up in Lauriston Gardens on Sherlock’s heels. That one time, he’d asked directly: _Who is he?_ And Sherlock had firmly refused to give a hard answer, not even a name. Just, _He’s with me_. And maybe that’s all that matters, because it seems that whatever else happens, John certainly is with Sherlock. 

It’s none of his business what goes on behind closed doors, what they get up to between cases. Or don’t. He doesn’t know. With Sherlock – God, who could even say? There’s never been anyone. Lestrade’s always figured he couldn’t be bothered with mere mortals, as far as sex and all that goes. Probably all too slow and stupid for him, or – his truer thought – it was completely foreign to Sherlock, possibly overwhelmingly so. He’s always been like that, touch of Asperger’s or something along that spectrum. Not good with people, generally. And yet here’s John Watson, living with him again since Mary (or Linda, he supposes) was carted off, or probably a little before that (January or February or thereabouts). He’s neither a super-genius nor a supermodel, yet somehow he’s good enough for Sherlock when no one else is. Or maybe he’s just been the one to find the way into that bewildering interior, figured out how to unlock all of those doors and – Lestrade’s imagination boggles. Do they actually do that? It seems impossible to imagine, and nosy as it is, he can’t help but be curious. He can’t actually grasp John Watson doing anything particularly gay, not that he’s prejudiced or anything. It just doesn’t seem quite like him. But then, maybe that _is_ his own, rather biased subjectivity talking. As for Sherlock, the notion of him touching another human being more than in fleeting, passing moments is literally incomprehensible, much less full-on intimacy. Naked. Exposed. Vulnerable. No. It simply doesn’t compute. 

Maybe they don’t, then. Maybe they’re just unusually close friends who live together. They’ve always lived together, from practically the day they met. Day after, wasn’t that what John said that one time? Maybe it’s nothing all that unusual at all. They could just be flatmates. John might have a girlfriend somewhere else – nothing serious, just someone to scratch his itches, as it were. The thought of this makes Lestrade feel simultaneously envious – Karen walked out over a year ago and he’s literally been too busy to get himself back into the game, although that’s not the only reason – but it also just plain doesn’t square up with his gut feeling. There _must_ be something more between Sherlock and John. Otherwise who else would put up with Sherlock for that long? Or John, for that matter – Lestrade’s seen a few displays of that particular temper. John, for all his military background, has a short fuse when it comes to being told what to do, though he’s always taken it from Sherlock. He’ll bitch at Sherlock and complain, but all the while he’ll be doing whatever it is that Sherlock just ordered him to do. Though that doesn’t happen as much any more, he’s noticed. Sherlock is altogether much softer at the corners than he used to be. Less prone to danger nights or temper tantrums of his own, which means fewer calls from Mycroft Holmes, which is always a good thing if you ask him. 

He checks his watch subtly, watching Sherlock crouch beside a body, his dark curls nearly touching John’s short grey-blond mix on the other side of the victim. 

“Don’t rush me,” Sherlock says, not looking up at him. He lowers his voice just for John, his tone almost intimate. “These marks here – asphyxiation, do you think?”

John hums a sound of agreement. “Yeah, see this, here? A thumbprint, I’d say. You might even be able to – ”

“ – get a print from the oils on the skin,” Sherlock jumps in and finishes without a hitch. 

John doesn’t even react to having had his sentence hijacked, but then, it does happen all the time. “So he went to the courier and sent something, then somewhere between there and here he got attacked. Why here?”

Sherlock shakes his head minutely, lifting his eyes to John’s. “He was placed here,” he tells John. Now he finally deigns to look up and include Lestrade in the conversation, pointing off to the left. “Wheel marks,” he proclaims. “The body wasn’t dragged; the killer was too clever. He was brought here in a cart or trolley of some sort, quite possibly from a local grocery. Find the trolley and you should be able to get more definitive finger prints.” 

“Right, we’re looking for a trolley or cart!” Lestrade calls out to the rest of his team. “Spread out! Check those bushes over there!” 

He looks back at Sherlock and John, still facing each other over the body. “God, you’re brilliant,” John is saying, smiling, keeping his voice down. “Sometimes I manage to forget.” 

Is Sherlock actually blushing? In the sunlight it’s difficult to tell, but he’s definitely smiling, the corners of his mouth quirking up almost bashfully. He withdraws a hand quickly – too quickly for Lestrade to tell exactly where it was before, but it was definitely closer to John than it was to himself. Lestrade clears his throat. “I’ll, er, let the coroner know that he can take over, then?” 

Sherlock is on his feet and all business again, the small smile gone, both hands in his pockets. “Yes. We’ve finished. Tell the pathologist to check for traces of drugs.”

“The body’s going to Molly, and I’m sure she’ll do the standard autopsy, but I’ll mention it,” Lestrade assures him. 

Sherlock gives him a slightly odd look. “All right,” he says, but doesn’t say anything else. 

Lestrade waits, but it seems Sherlock isn’t going to say whatever it is he isn’t saying. He fidgets. “What?” 

That gets a sly half-smile from Sherlock, almost a smirk. “Nothing,” he says. One of Lestrade’s team calls out. They look over to see the shopping trolley being extracted from the trees. (Saved by the bell, Lestrade thinks.) “There’s your killer,” Sherlock says. He waves his hands at it. “Off you go, then.” 

Lestrade lifts his coffee cup. “Thanks a lot, you two. Invaluable as ever.” 

John proffers him a smile. “Cheers, mate. We should get a pint sometime. It’s been awhile.” 

“Sure, next time I’m free,” Lestrade says, half in jest, already striding toward the trees. “Send me a text or something.” 

“Will do,” John calls back. 

Lestrade takes another several paces, then glances over his shoulder to see Sherlock putting an arm around John’s shoulders as they walk back in the direction of the main street. It could just be that Sherlock is steering John in the right direction, but the arm doesn’t drop away afterward. Yeah, he thinks. They must be. They _must_. 

*** 

“That’s it, then,” Molly says, and holds out the clipboard for him to sign on the line. 

Lestrade takes it from her, uncomfortably aware that Sherlock is watching him from across the room. He makes every effort to keep his face looking normal as he scrawls his initials and passes the form back to Molly. “There we are,” he says. 

She isn’t preoccupied with Sherlock this time. Hasn’t been for some time now, actually, not that it’s enough to get his hopes up. “Thanks,” she says, dimpling at him and tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I guess I’ll just – pop him back into the freezer, then.”

“Right,” Lestrade says. Across the room, Sherlock leans in toward John and says something and John snickers under his breath. The two of them edge through the door and go to wait for him in the corridor. Lestrade clears his throat. “So – er, anything else I need to do?” 

Molly shakes her head, her eyebrows drawing together in slight confusion. “No – just the usual,” she tells him. “I’ll let you know when all the processing is finished up. Other than that – case closed, I guess. Sherlock got the killer?” 

“Yeah. You’d be amazed at how much a shopping trolley can tell a person,” Lestrade says dryly and she laughs. 

“They never tell me all that much!” 

“Me neither, but I’m not Sherlock, I guess,” Lestrade says ruefully. 

“That’s – not necessarily a bad thing,” Molly says quickly, her cheeks turning a bit pink. 

He’s not sure what she means, but turns it into a joke anyway. “I guess one of him is more than enough.” He can’t think of any other reason to prolong the visit, since everything’s done. “Well – I should be off. See you next time, I suppose.” 

Molly ducks her chin in a nod. “Right. Next time,” she echoes. 

He goes, thinking that she’s started acting slightly bashful around him again, which is strange. She’d stopped doing that some time ago. Odd, that. He shakes his head and joins the other two in the corridor. 

Sherlock is definitely smirking, but doesn’t say anything. Lestrade knows better than to ask. Damn him. He’s always seeing too much, though most of the time that’s a good thing. 

*** 

On their next case, something interesting happens. They’re questioning a suspect in a murder investigation, or rather Sherlock in particular is, when the man in question says something rather suggestive to him. Sherlock hesitates for a nanosecond, barely visible, (though Lestrade catches it), then more or less ignores it and asks the suspect a different question. The suspect is in his late thirties, tall and slim with short, dark hair. Rather handsome, Lestrade notes, and he’s eyeing Sherlock with decided interest. He doesn’t let Sherlock ignore what he said, however, and comes back with something considerably more explicit. 

This time Sherlock takes out his notebook and jots something down, dons a bored look and says, “Sorry. Not interested.” 

“Why not?” The other asks, not backing down an inch. In fact, he sidles closer and takes the lapel of Sherlock’s coat, that enviable Belstaff, between his thumb and finger, rubbing it suggestively. “Don’t like what you see?” 

Lestrade glances out the corner of his eye and sees John bristling visibly, though he could just be feeling defensive of his friend, he supposes. 

Sherlock’s face is impassive and he continues to avoid eye contact, clearing his throat slightly. “Simply not interested. Please desist.” 

The suspect opens his mouth and unleashes a string of homophobic epithets so ugly that Lestrade nearly feels nauseated. But before he can say anything, John moves so quickly he’s a blur, already several paces back and shaking his bruised knuckles with a grimace by the time Lestrade sees their suspect on the ground, bleeding from the nose. “John!” It’s more startled than an objection. 

Sherlock looks impassively down at their suspect. “Well, he’s hardly going to feel more inclined to talk now,” he comments wryly, the remark meant for John, but when they both glance at the latter, Lestrade sees John pacing, his jaw clenched. He looks at Sherlock and registers the very slight change that comes over his face. Sherlock watches John for a moment, then turns back to Lestrade and lowers his voice. “Will you be all right to carry on here? I’m going to take John home and get him calmed down.” 

Odd that _John_ would be the one to need calming down, after the wave of vile abuse that Sherlock was just subjected to, all the while barely blinking, but Lestrade nods. “Yeah, of course. Go ahead. I’ll call you later and let you know where we’ve got to.” 

Sherlock gives him a brief look of something very close to gratitude, and goes after John, who is already walking away. Lestrade hears him say John’s name, and watches as they retreat, stopping at the kerb of the street, presumably to hail a taxi, though neither one of them raises an arm. John is tense and angry and after a moment, Sherlock puts his arms around him in a gesture that looks uncharacteristically tender to Lestrade. Bad memory? he wonders, thinking of John. Nice that Sherlock’s willing and – able? (Is that the right word for it?) to extend that sort of comfort, then. They really are best friends, aren’t they, he thinks, and for a moment he actually feels a bit envious. Then he remembers the suspect, who is cursing and holding his bleeding nose, and looks down at him with a decided lack of compassion. 

“For God’s sake, he barely even touched you,” he says in disgust.

“He broke my fucking nose!” The suspect is more angry than anything else, and Lestrade decides that he’s fine. 

“Yeah, well, after what you said, you shouldn’t be surprised,” he says unsympathetically. “Now get up and tell me where you were Tuesday night last week.” 

*** 

The day after the case wraps up, Lestrade has reason to go over to Baker Street. Sherlock left his scarf at the NSY offices and Lestrade has had one of Mrs Hudson’s baking pans for months now, ever since she made him a batch of brownies. Nice woman. He’s just never managed to return it. He carries the scarf and, after failing to get a response at 221A, the pan, and heads up the stairs. 

He finds Sherlock alone in the kitchen, poring over a microscope. He looks up as Lestrade comes in, his expression already slightly quizzical, obviously knowing that it’s neither John nor Mrs Hudson. “Lestrade,” he says, sounding a touch surprised. “What is it?” 

“Not a case,” Lestrade tells him. He holds up the scarf. “Just bringing this back. You left it at the office yesterday.”

“Yes,” Sherlock says. “I noticed but we had just got into a taxi. I meant to text you. Thank you for bringing it.” He gets up and fills and switches on the kettle. “Tea?” he asks, over his shoulder. “John’s not home from work yet, but you can stay if you like.” 

Lestrade smiles, more to himself than anything. “Sure,” he says, and goes to pull out one of the kitchen chairs. “Cup of tea would be great.” He puts the cake pan down. “I also have this,” he says. “It’s Mrs Hudson’s, but she wasn’t in.”

“No.” Sherlock comes back to the table and switches off the microscope, removing the slide and storing it in a specimen dish. He puts the lid on and stows it in the bottom drawer of the fridge before returning to the table. “She’s in Devonshire for a funeral. We’ll give it to her.” 

_We_ , Lestrade hears, but doesn’t comment on it. “You were brilliant yesterday,” he offers. “Solving that will have made a lot of people happy.” 

Sherlock smiles a little but doesn’t say anything in response. Instead, he gets up again and goes to find some mugs in one of the cupboards. He sets one in front of Lestrade. “Do you take milk? Never mind, of course you do.” He says the latter as though to himself, going back to the fridge to get the milk out. 

Lestrade watches him and doesn’t ask how that was an ‘of course’ on the milk. “The other day,” he starts, feeling a bit cautious. He trails off, waiting to see whether or not Sherlock has guessed what he’s trying to bring up. 

Sherlock finally sits down. “Hmm?” 

He’ll have to explain, then. “With John,” Lestrade says. “When he broke the killer’s nose.” 

Comprehension clicks then. “Ah.” Sherlock turns his empty mug around in his hands, then gets up again to retrieve a canister of loose black tea, rapidly scooping some at seeming random into the empty teapot. The kettle is heating up and he has to raise his voice a little to be heard over it, speaking with his back to Lestrade. “John gets… upset by some things,” he says, rather vaguely. 

Lestrade fiddles with a spoon that’s lying on the table until the thought occurs that Sherlock may have been using it in his experiment and he hastily stops touching it. “I noticed,” he says dryly, hoping that Sherlock will expand of his own accord. 

Sherlock turns back to glance at him and seems to get that his explanation was insufficient. “He… doesn’t like it when people… insult me,” he says finally. A hand rakes through his curls. The kettle switches itself off and he pours water into the teapot, puts the lid on, and sets it on the table to steep. His eye catches the spoon near Lestrade’s hands. “Oh. Were you touching that?” 

Lestrade winces. “Should I not have done?” 

Sherlock’s face says enough. “Might want to wash your hands,” he offers. 

“Oh God,” Lestrade says, already getting up and heading for the loo. Sherlock snickers behind him. “I’m not going to die or become suddenly very ill, am I?” he calls back. 

“No, no,” Sherlock returns reassuringly, but Lestrade does not feel entirely reassured. 

He goes into the loo and washes his hands for at least five minutes under very hot water with a great deal of soap. Drying off with a small hand towel hanging behind him, he can’t help but glance into Sherlock’s bedroom, as the door leading into it is open. He’s curious and he’s got an unobstructed view of the room. The bed has been neatly made. Pillows on both sides, but then, some people like lots of pillows. There is a cardigan hanging over the back of the chair beside the closet. Sherlock doesn’t wear cardigans, does he? What really catches his eye is the fact that surface of the dresser has been divided in half. One side is scattered with random oddments such as several small stones, what appears to be an old-fashioned pocket watch, a scattering of old train ticket stubs, and various other bits and pieces. The other side contains nearly nothing, just a framed photo of an older woman with a round nose and plain features, and beside that, a set of dog tags. These are the real giveaway. 

He senses Sherlock’s presence rather than sees or hears him approach, joining him in the loo, looking over his shoulder into the bedroom. “Yes,” Sherlock says, simply and very quietly. 

“Yes – what?” Lestrade thinks he knows, though. 

“What you’re thinking. Yes. Did you think that we – weren’t?” Sherlock’s question is almost eloquent in its simplicity. 

“I wondered,” Lestrade admits, looking sheepishly at Sherlock. “It was always hard to tell, exactly.” 

Sherlock nods with his chin back toward the kitchen. “Tea’s ready,” he says, and Lestrade follows him out of the loo again. They sit down and Sherlock pours. “I suppose you’ve got questions.” 

It seems like an invitation, so he takes it. “When did it start, then?” Lestrade wants to know. Sherlock passes him a clean spoon and he stirs milk into his tea. 

Sherlock takes the spoon back from him and stirs his own tea. “About a month after he came home,” he says, his eyes in his cup. Lestrade notes his use of the word _home_ and suddenly gets a glimpse of how Sherlock must have felt about John going back to Mary if he considered Baker Street John’s actual home all along. Lestrade wonders if he’s going to say anything more, but after a small pause, Sherlock goes on. “We were having an argument. Just something small and stupid, but then it escalated and John started shouting at me about – well, lots of things. Having got shot. St Bart’s. A lot of things. I suppose I was in a temper by that point, too, and just when I thought he was about to hit me or – leave again, he kissed me.” He smiles then and his eyes slide up to meet Lestrade’s startled gaze. “It was as surprising to me as I’m sure it is to you,” he admits. “It was the last thing I was expecting.” 

“But you – wanted it,” Lestrade says, testing. “You already felt that way, about him.”

Sherlock looks down again and nods at his tea. “I suppose I did. Yes.” 

“So it was a welcome kiss, then,” Lestrade says, pushing further. He picks up his tea and takes a long sip. This is rather satisfying, getting some proper information about all this at last. Is Sherlock actually flushing a little? “Had you ever kissed before?” 

“No,” Sherlock says instantly. “Never. Nothing like that had ever happened.” 

“I always thought John wasn’t – er, into… you know. Men,” Lestrade says, not trying to come off too bluntly, but there doesn’t seem to be any other way to put it. “I didn’t think he was gay.” 

“No. He did like to say that, rather regularly,” Sherlock says, rolling his eyes a little. He takes a sip of his tea at last. 

Lestrade scrutinises him. “I’d wager he’s taken that back, then,” he comments, and Sherlock definitely reddens now. Lestrade smirks. 

“Obviously,” he says, a bit acerbically. “Given that you’ve just observed that we share a bedroom.” 

“All right, don’t take off my head,” Lestrade says mildly, with a chuckle. “Look: I’m glad for you. I really am. I always sort of thought you fancied him, if you want to know. And obviously you two were just meant to be together. I mean, right from the start, from that first crime scene you brought him to. From that day on, you two were just – I don’t know, a unit. It never seemed right, him being on his own without you, or you being on your own when he was living with Mary.” 

Sherlock makes a small sound that could be an agreement, but it’s rather neutral. 

“I’ll tell you what else,” Lestrade adds. “I don’t give a toss about the two blokes thing, but I never thought you did that sort of thing at all, with anyone.” 

Sherlock meets his eyes coolly, regaining his composure. “I didn’t,” he says, very directly. “I never bothered, before John. He changed things. Me.” 

Lestrade studies him. “So after you met him – you decided you wanted to?” he asks, curious. 

“It wasn’t as – immediate a decision as that, but – more or less, yes,” Sherlock tells him. He picks up his tea and drinks again. 

Lestrade ignores his, leaning forward across the table. “And how long had you been wanting that?” he asks, more curious than ever. “Since before you went away?” 

Sherlock gives an irritated twitch of his shoulder. “What does it matter?” He sounds cross. 

“It doesn’t, but I’m curious.” Lestrade doesn’t back down. “Come on. Tell me.”

Sherlock’s mouth purses, but he nods. “Yes. Satisfied?” 

Lestrade sits back, still surveying Sherlock. “And then you went and planned his whole wedding, the best man speech and all of that, and then his lovely wife went and shot you. And then he still left you for her again, and you shot someone, just to protect her.” 

“Not _her_ ,” Sherlock practically spits. “John, by proxy.”

“Ah.” Lestrade gets it now. “But the rest of it – and you never told him?” 

“No.” Sherlock shrugs. “How could I? He was already engaged when I came back. And I thought he wasn’t, as you said, into – this.”

“But apparently he is, after all,” Lestrade says. He grins as Sherlock scowls and fidgets, and lifts his mug to drink down the rest of his tea. “Well, I think that’s great,” he announces. “Seriously, Sherlock. I’m really happy for you. I won’t lie: it’s hard to imagine – for either of you, honestly. It’s hard to imagine him with a bloke and it’s hard to imagine you with anyone, but if you tell me it’s really a thing, then I’ll believe you.”

“It is,” Sherlock says, a bit sharply. 

“That wasn’t an attack,” Lestrade assures him. “I think it’s great. Honestly.” 

Suddenly Sherlock smiles. “As it happens, so do I.” He nods at Lestrade’s mug. “More tea?” 

“I should get going,” Lestrade says with reluctance. “Paperwork. Endless post-case paperwork. But thanks. And for telling me about all that.” 

“Well, it was plain to see, but as ever, you failed to observe,” Sherlock says, his tone rather dry. 

“Fair enough.” Lestrade gets up. “Take care. I’ll be in touch.” 

Sherlock nods at him, and Lestrade goes. Well, he thinks, jogging down to the stairs to where he left the cruiser parked. That was enlightening. He still can’t quite picture it, but the evidence is all there. 

*** 

Man U is down five with less than two minutes to go when John orders their fifth round. “So,” he says, bringing two brimming pints back to their table. “Sherlock says the two of you had a little chat last week.” 

“What?” Lestrade heard perfectly well, though. He turns his attention from the game and meets John’s eye. “Oh yeah, that. Yeah. We did, a bit. He told you?” 

“Obviously,” John says, for a moment sounding more like Sherlock than himself. He sips at his beer. “Were you suitably shocked, or had you cottoned on by then?” 

Lestrade decides to abandon the game and turns to face John properly, getting both elbows on the table. “I wasn’t shocked, no. Bit surprised. I mean, I’d suspected. Just never had it confirmed, I guess.” 

“But you still don’t quite believe it,” John says, eyeing him. He shrugs. “Fair enough. I’d have trouble believing it if it had been you, too.” 

“It’s not that it’s because it’s – you know, two blokes or anything,” Lestrade says again. “I’m a modern man. But it’s more than it’s _Sherlock_ , you know? And you too, for that matter. I always thought you were pretty – well, _straight_ , if you want to know.” 

John smiles a little. “Yeah, well,” he says philosophically. “Sliding scales and all that, right?”

Lestrade shrugs. “I honestly don’t know much about all that. I guess, though. I mean, it’s got to be the case, hasn’t it? I don’t want to pry or anything, but I’m curious.” 

John’s brows are a little furrowed, but he shakes his head. “I would be, too. You can ask. It’s all right.” 

Lestrade takes a long drink of beer, sets his mug down and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “When did you know you were attracted to blokes, then?” he asks, very bluntly. 

John’s frown grows and he stares into his beer as though it contains the answer. “Difficult to say, honestly,” he admits. 

“I mean, had you ever – you know – before Sherlock?” Lestrade can’t help asking. 

John shakes his head again. “No. Never. It would be lying to say I’d never thought about it. But I never pursued it with anyone. It was always easy enough to suppress. I love women. I was lucky, I suppose. I could always hide it. And before Sherlock there was never really anyone worth going to all the trouble for.” 

“So when did you know you were attracted to Sherlock, then?” Lestrade asks, even more curious. “Did it start right away, or… ?”

“More or less, yeah.” John smiles a little now, possibly at some private memory. “There was an instant attraction of some sort, at least, on both our parts. It took Sherlock awhile to realise what it was, for him. For me it had less to do with the fact that it was a bloke and more to do with the fact that it was Sherlock, specifically, as you said. He’d basically told me the day we met that he doesn’t get involved with people that way. He misinterpreted something I said and thought I was asking him out.” 

“And you weren’t?” Lestrade asks, raising his eyebrows. 

John fights another smile. “I suppose that’s debatable,” he concedes. “Maybe I was. Yeah. I guess I was. Probing, at the very least. Either way, he turned it down – nicely, but absolutely – and I just told myself later, down the road when it occurred to me properly that I did want this with him, that it just wasn’t a possibility. Because it’s Sherlock and he generally has no use for most people. And I didn’t want to ask again and potentially ruin our friendship. And then he died, or so I thought.” 

He takes a long pull at his beer and Lestrade surveys him. “That was rough,” he says sympathetically. “So you already knew before that. That you wanted this.”

John nods. “Oh yeah, absolutely. And then he came back at the worst moment, and the problem was that we’d just never talked properly even once. We’d never managed to have a direct conversation about each other or how we felt about anything, on any subject, unless one or both of us were angry about it. Even after Mary, it took until we were standing in the sitting room shouting at each other for me to realise that I’d had it up to here with not just coming out and saying it. Because nothing was right between us. There were five years of uncleared air between us by that point and it had just got to be too much.” 

“So you kissed him,” Lestrade says, and John’s eyes flick up to his. “Sherlock told me. He said the two of you were yelling at each other and that you just kissed him all of a sudden and that it rather took him by surprise.” 

John’s entire face smiles before he can help it and he turns his face down toward the table, still smiling. “Did he say that?” It’s clearly a rhetorical question. “Yeah. It definitely surprised him. Me too, honestly. I meant to talk first. I was at the end of my rope and not thinking of kissing him in the slightest. To be frank, punching was definitely at the forefront of my mind. I don’t even know what came over me, but we’d come to a showdown of sorts and were standing there, facing off across the room, and suddenly I just found myself barrelling across the floor and kissing him.” 

“Wow,” Lestrade comments. “How did he react?” 

“He seemed stunned at first,” John says, his face still full of affection. “And then he recovered with rather astonishing speed, if you want to know. The next thing I knew, his arms were around me and he was kissing back in a way that was so passionate that I was almost as shocked as he was. I didn’t even know then that he could feel like that. I’d seen flashes of it when he was angry or frustrated, but – you can’t even imagine that level of intensity. I don’t think even we talked for the next ten minutes. By the time that kiss ended, the entire world had changed for both of us.” 

Lestrade finds this rather touching. Still curious, and since he’s been given the green light anyway, he presses on. “And how long did it take to go from that to – ?”

“To shagging?” John finishes indelicately, with something of a pointed look. “Well, it was that night, so – a couple of hours at most, I’d say.” He smirks. 

Lestrade’s eyebrows are near his hairline. “Really! Wow. So you talked first, I imagine. And then – ?” 

“Are you really fishing for the lurid details?” John asks, eyeing him over the rim of his mug. 

Lestrade hunches down a little and locks his fingers around his own beer. “I’m just curious, is all. This is all just so – I mean, I just can’t see it ever happening to me, you know? That I would just make friends with some bloke that I’d one day discover I wanted to shag. So explain. I’m terribly curious. Did you – I don’t know, touch him? Did he touch you? It’s hard to even imagine Sherlock touching anyone like that. Or like any way, more or less. Who started it? That’s what I want to know. And was the other one shocked by it, et cetera. Come on. Gimme.” 

John gives a wry smile and spreads out his hands in mock surrender. “I started touching him first, but only because it was obvious that he was aroused by that point. That first time, that’s all it was. We were still in the sitting room. We’d ended up sitting down on the sofa during the whole long talk, and after we started kissing again, and – yeah. And you know, it was obviously new for him, but it wasn’t shocking. By that point it was pretty clear where it was heading and we were equally into it, so – yeah. That’s how the first round went. Then I suggested we go to bed, in his room, and it was mostly more of the same. It was new for both of us, so it was all very experimental at the start.” 

Lestrade flounders a little. “So – have you, I don’t know, tried everything?” John raises his eyebrows, so he tries to explain. “I just – you know, with two blokes, there’s always supposed to be a top and a bottom for certain things. You know.”

“For penetrative sex, yes,” John agrees. “There are a lot of other things to do besides that, though if you’re asking, we also do that, yeah. Bear in mind that physical position doesn’t necessarily correlate to – I don’t know, who’s calling the shots, say. You can do that from any position. Sometimes we’re both doing that, regardless of whose cock is where – both bossing the other around. Sometimes we’re both pretty submissive. It’s like with anyone. There’s always some give and some take.”

Lestrade listens to this intently. “So it’s not like the popular idea of there just being one top and one bottom,” he says experimentally. 

“That’s not quite what I’m saying,” John says, correcting him. “I’m sure there are plenty of couples where one person always tops and one always bottoms. I’m just saying that it’s not necessarily linked to one person always being dominant and the other always submissive. Sometimes it is, sometimes it isn’t. If you’re asking who tops between Sherlock and I, I’ll admit it’s usually me. But that doesn’t mean he isn’t the one calling the shots sometimes. Most of the time, it’s not about calling shots in the first place. It’s about being intimate with the person you love and wanting them to feel good. Like with any couple.” He takes another sip of beer and looks Lestrade in the eyes unwaveringly. “Does that make sense?” 

Lestrade nods. “Yeah. I think I get that. I mean, with women, it’s the same, isn’t it? Just because you’re the one with the cock doesn’t mean you’re saying how it’s going to go.” He thinks of his first wife with a touch of rue. 

“Exactly.” John sounds satisfied. He shrugs. “What else do you want to know?” 

Lestrade feels a bit silly about asking, but his curiosity wins out. “You don’t have to answer this,” he says, to preface it. 

“S’all right. Shoot.” John finishes his beer and dabs the corner of his mouth with a finger. 

“Being on the bottom,” Lestrade hedges, wincing a little at asking this out loud. “Er – I mean, what’s that even _like?_ ”

John smiles and ducks his chin a little. “It’s good,” he says, his eyebrows very high. “It’s – yeah. It’s – er, really good. I don’t mean to overshare, but every time we do it, I think we should do it like that more often. It’s just for me, being the one to do the penetrating is obviously more what I’m used to, so it sort of comes naturally.”

“And Sherlock?” Lestrade can’t help it. 

“He wasn’t used to anything,” John tells him, very frankly. “Our first time together was his first with anyone, doing anything. He just couldn’t be bothered before that.”

Lestrade wants to know more, though. “Does it, er, hurt?” he asks. 

“Not if you’re properly prepared for it,” John says. “Stretched,” he adds, seeing the non-comprehension on Lestrade’s face. “I’ll admit, it takes more prep than with a woman. But it’s quite worthwhile, either way you’re doing it. Being on the receiving end – yeah, how to describe that. It feels a bit like you have less direct control over how and when you’re going to get there, but it’s also sort of double the pleasure because you’ve got it in the usual place, with your cock, I mean, and you’ve also got it inside you and that’s the part that feels totally beyond your control. I found it almost overwhelming the first time we did that, like my body was literally going to explode. And on the mental or emotional side – yeah, it’s a different experience, that’s for sure. It’s amazing, though.” He delivers this very evenly, almost as though challenging Lestrade to question it. 

Lestrade digests this for a moment, contemplating the last inch of beer in his mug. “It’s just hard to imagine Sherlock like that, you know? Not that I’m trying to imagine him in explicitly sexual circumstances like that, but just – I don’t know, is he – ” He flounders a little. “Does he like it? Is he enthusiastic about it? Is he, I don’t know, a good lover? Is he considerate? Does he reciprocate? Take care of you and all that?” 

John nods, smiling almost to himself. “Yeah. He’s great, actually. Definitely enthusiastic. Extremely. I know it’s surprising, but – he really loves me, you know. And it definitely shows, especially when we’re like that. I know how he can be sometimes, so rude and unfiltered. But he’s equally unfiltered about this sort of thing. He was a bit shy about some things at first. Felt awkward about his lack of experience. You know he doesn’t like being in situations where he doesn’t know what he’s doing, but he just kept going there with me. For me.” 

Lestrade smiles. “That’s pretty incredible,” he admits. “I still can’t even imagine it, but I’ll take your word for it.” 

John smiles, at him this time. “Do that. And speaking of all this is making me miss him, you know that? That’s one of the best parts. Even though we live together and work together and all the rest, we just never seem to get enough of one another. I hope that won’t change, but I don’t think it will. We had to wait so long to get our shit together and now it constantly feels like we’re making up for lost time.” 

“Go on,” Lestrade tells him. “Game’s over, anyway. Get on home to him, then.” 

John gets to his feet, not wasting any time. “I’ll do that. I’ll tell you said hello.” 

“Please do.” Lestrade watches him go. He stays where he is a little longer, partly watching the post-game show, but mostly turning over everything John just told him and trying to make it fit somehow. 

*** 

Two weeks go by. Then a Thursday comes along where nothing happens for once and he’s able to get a little paperwork done. Lestrade clocks out at half-past five and drives home. He’s just crossing through Westminster when the call comes in. It shouldn’t be him; he’s not on duty, but evidently there’s no one else. He curses, then sighs and accepts his fate – should have known that having an early night was never going to happen, anyway, so whatever fond hopes he’s been secretly cherishing with regards to one day having a romantic life again might as well be thrown out the window. He texts Donovan and tells her to pick up the cruiser and meet him at the crime scene. He’ll join her, but first he takes two left turns and parks in front of Baker Street. 

The outside door is open as usual, so he jogs lightly up the stairs and skids to a stop in the doorway, caught unawares. 

Sherlock and John are standing in the kitchen, Sherlock backed up against the counter, and they’re kissing. Lestrade’s brain registers this fact hollowly and he can’t help but stand there and gape. It’s not exactly a quick peck on the lips, either. They’re _kissing_ -kissing. Obviously neither one of them heard him come up, which is not all that surprising, given how absorbed they are in one another. It’s a full, deep kiss, their mouths open, jaws and clearly tongues moving slowly, arms wrapped around each other in an embrace so clearly full of passion that it makes Lestrade’s gut ache just to witness it. John’s work bag is on the table as though he just dropped it there and went straight into Sherlock’s arms, which perhaps he did. Their kissing is making wet sounds, and then John murmurs something too low for Lestrade to catch, and whatever it was makes Sherlock laugh, his voice low and intimate and sensual, and Lestrade knows that he has never in his life heard Sherlock make a sound like that before. It’s shocking, honestly. He really did have to see it to really _get_ it, but now it’s right there before his eyes, and it finally feels real. They’re not just having him on or something. They’re genuinely in love. He feels a bit stunned, his jaw hanging open as Sherlock bends his dark, curly head to capture John’s mouth again and his hands slide down to John’s arse and grip it, pulling him closer still, and John groans into his mouth. 

Lestrade’s face floods with heat. He shouldn’t be seeing this. He thinks of coughing, making some sort of sound to announce his presence, but then on second thought he thinks that maybe he should just go. He and Donovan can handle this one on their own, and if they can’t – well, he can always call later. _Much_ later, he amends mentally. He turns but the floor of the outer hallway squeaks and gives him away. He grits his teeth together and shoots a guilty look at Sherlock and John. 

The kiss breaks off and Sherlock looks at him over John’s head, his hands sliding casually back up to John’s hips, but they don’t break apart. “Lestrade,” Sherlock says, his voice low and almost gravelly, but he doesn’t sound particularly embarrassed to have been caught doing this. 

Well, why should he, Lestrade reprimands himself. It’s his own kitchen and he’s certainly allowed to stand in it and kiss whomever he likes in it. “Er, sorry to intrude,” he says, wincing. “There’s a case. I was just going to go, though…”

Sherlock looks at John, evidently exchanging a look, and John turns around partly, not all the way. Lestrade’s mind cringes away from the obvious reason why. “What’s the case?” John asks. 

“Murder,” Lestrade says. “Or so they think. Victim appears to have been stabbed and then pushed out a window.”

John looks back at Sherlock. “What would you call that?” he asks, his voice lowered privately. 

Sherlock appears to debate inwardly for a long moment. “A seven,” he says, with apparent reluctance. “But…”

They gaze at each other, communicating something that Lestrade can’t quite follow. Then John says, “You can take it, if you like.” 

Sherlock’s voice is equally low and Lestrade looks away and tries to pretend he isn’t listening intently. “We said eight and over only, when we’re…”

John makes a sound of negation. “I only just got home,” he says, as though reminding Sherlock. “It’s okay. Do you want to take it?” 

“But you’re – ” Sherlock doesn’t say whatever John is. “And so am I, actually. It’s your decision.” 

Lestrade has never heard Sherlock concede to anyone or anything before. Then again, he’s never seen Sherlock touch anyone the way he just was before, either. Or the way he still is, in fact, his long fingers cradling John’s hips in undeniable tenderness. Well, consider me told, he thinks again, marvelling afresh. Sherlock Holmes! Of all people! 

Apparently not caring a fig that he’s there, John leans up and kisses Sherlock quickly on the lips. “If you want to go, we can go.” 

Sherlock hesitates, obviously torn. Lestrade clears his throat and decides to intervene. “On second thought, it’s probably a pretty straightforward homicide, come to think of it,” he offers. 

Sherlock actually looks relieved, and this is what convinces him. (Sherlock Holmes, relieved to be let off the hook when it comes to investigating a murder?!) Lestrade’s mind is well and truly blown. “Are you sure?” he asks, too quickly. 

Lestrade hooks his thumbs into the pockets of his coat. “Yeah. Donovan’s already on her way there, so I should head over and join her. Tell you what: if it turns out to be complicated or debatable in any way, I’ll let you two know, all right?” 

John looks back over his shoulder, his arms still around Sherlock’s shoulders. “Greg,” he says in tones of profound gratitude, “I owe you a drink.” 

Lestrade actually laughs. “Consider me convinced,” he tells them both. “I never thought I’d see the day. But here you are, and far be it for me to interfere.” 

“Seeing is believing,” Sherlock informs him, his eyes glinting. Lestrade gives a rueful smile and reaches for the door of the flat to pull it closed, though it was open when he got there, and Sherlock says his name, stopping him. 

“Yeah?” 

“Yellow roses,” Sherlock says, though his eyes are on John’s face, a secretive smile playing about his mouth. 

Lestrade frowns. “How’s that?” 

“Yellow roses,” Sherlock repeats. “That should do it.” 

Lestrade is still looking blank, so John decides to come to his rescue. “He means for Molly,” he explains, not taking his eyes from Sherlock’s. 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “She told me once, years back, that any man wanting to get her attention would only need give or send her yellow roses. I suggest a dozen or two. Show up at her doorstep and take her by surprise, something properly romantic. She only requires the smallest of suggestions but you’ve been so bloody diffident about it. Start with roses. And incidentally, if your victim has been stabbed in either kidney, it’s likely a copycat killer imitating the Bethnal Burglar. I assume the murder was in Bethnal Green?” 

Lestrade shakes his head. “How could you have possibly known that?” 

John makes a sound noticeably like admiration and Sherlock looks modestly pleased, and makes his response directly to John. “It’s just obvious, isn’t it?” 

“Not to we mere mortals, you brilliant thing,” John murmurs, and Lestrade decides that it’s definitely time to make himself scarce. Sherlock’s cheeks are flushing and it’s looking rather like they’ve both forgotten he’s even there already. 

He pulls the door shut and creeps down the stairs, waiting until he’s on the pavement to respond to Donovan’s impatient-sounding texts. He slides in behind the wheel thinking of the yellow roses and grins to himself. 

And, a week later when he finally gets a night off, when he rings Molly’s bell and she answers, her eyes lighting up at the sight of the bouquet in his hands, he thinks, God damn it. Sherlock was right. He opens his mouth to try to find the right thing to say, but thank God for the fact that Sherlock Holmes is head-over-heels for the first time in his life and is feeling magnanimous about dispensing romantic advice, because from the look on Molly’s face, the right words aren’t even going to be needed. Sherlock was right: all he needed to do was finally make a move. 

But then, his own powers of observation have always been laughable next to Sherlock’s. Never mind: he steps into Molly’s house and closes the door behind him. If his current observations are anything to go by, everything is going to turn out exactly the way it should. 

***

He thanks them two weeks later at their next crime scene, and has the chance to amusedly note what happens when someone tries to flirt with John in front of Sherlock, and after having outed themselves to the rest of Lestrade’s team that with _that_ particular kiss, the two of them stop trying to hide it in general. 

“Did you know?” Donovan demands, the night of Sherlock’s possessive demonstration of his prior claim on John Watson’s mouth in front of the would-be flirt. 

Lestrade smirks. Donovan’s always going on at him about how Sherlock is the one who should be receiving his salary for all that he helps Lestrade do his job. Time to finally turn the tables on her. “Of course,” he says airily. “Didn’t you? It was right there under your nose all this time.” 

She gives him a warning look. “Don’t you even think about saying it, boss. Don’t you dare.” 

Lestrade ignores her, intoning Sherlock’s infamous quote in tones righteous superiority. “‘As ever, you see, but you do not observe’.”

“That’s it. I’m quitting,” Donovan says, huffing. 

Lestrade grins and checks the time. He’s still got half an hour to get to the restaurant where he’s meeting Molly for a late dinner. She’s only just finished herself, which leads him to hope rather a lot that this time, he might actually be dating someone who gets his work schedule and even more, might be willing to accept it. “No you’re not,” he says lazily. “It was time, though,” he adds, serious now. “For John and Sherlock, I mean.” 

Donovan shrugs but doesn’t contradict him. “You meeting Hooper tonight?” 

“Indeed. So let’s wrap it up and get out of here.” Lestrade holds out his hands for the keys to the cruiser and Donovan tosses them over. For the first time in ages, he feels well satisfied with life in general. Sherlock solved the crime in about five seconds, interrupting his own kiss with a rapid-fire paragraph of information that unravelled the entire case, then kissed John again and announced that they were leaving. John hadn’t even put up a token protest, grinning at Lestrade with a semi-apologetic look and striding off in the direction of the nearest cab, hand-in-hand with Sherlock. It’s great, Lestrade thinks. Yeah: he’s definitely satisfied with life these days. He thinks of Molly’s dimples and smile and feels a glow settle deep in his gut. “I’ve got things to do,” he says, and starts the car. “Let’s go.”

Donovan pulls her door closed. “Yes, boss.” She gives him a rare smile and Lestrade pulls away from the crime scene gladly. He envies what Sherlock and John seem to have found themselves, regardless of however long it took them to get there. And now it’s my turn, he thinks, and smiles out at the traffic as he drives. 

*


End file.
